


Motionless

by LithiumReaper



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Awesome Sheriff Stilinski, BAMF Derek, BAMF Stiles, Body switch fic, Brief description of violence, Fluff, M/M, Panic Attacks, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 02:05:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3832993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LithiumReaper/pseuds/LithiumReaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles pulls his hand away and stares at Derek’s face in the mirror again. His pupils are dilated and his skin looks flushed.</p><p>:::</p><p>Stiles and Derek experience a little bit of a Freaky Friday incident, and this just sucks, because Stiles is horny and wants to jack off, but he can't cause Derek. Fuck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Stiles feels weird. Granted, he always feels a little weird. He always feels like his skin is tightly stretched over his bones, but that’s also why he has Adderall in the first place, right?

Right now, though? Right now, Stiles feels so weird. There’s a tingling at the base of his skull and his brain feels like it is pounding its way out through his forehead. His eyes are watering, even though they’re closed. It feels like someone is slowly breaking his bones and then gluing them back together again. The pain spreading through his body slowly turns him numb and Stiles falls asleep again.

When Stiles wakes up again, sunlight is streaming in through his bedroom window. He swears and tries to remember whether he closed his curtains last night or not, but just thinking about it makes his head pound violently behind his eyes. Stiles stretches slowly, pointing his toes and curling them deliciously. He arches his back and scratches the fine hairs on his lower abdomen. The hair is a little coarser than Stiles remembers it being, but he shrugs it off. 

Stiles keeps his eyes closed, the sunlight too bright and just making the pounding in his head even worse. Stiles yawns and pushes himself upright. He clutches at the sides of the mattress and he feels tingly all over. The material under his fingers felt strange, almost like Stiles could feel each individual fibre of the sheet. Stiles slowly peels his eyes open, and what he sees is not his worn thin, blue plaid pyjama bottoms, but a pair of grey sweats with the drawstring knotted loosely.

The abdomen and belly button above the sweats don’t belong to him either. The hands gripping his knees were big and the fingers were thicker than his own. Stiles stares directly down at the body, his body, and fucking flails out of the bed. He lands on his ass, which conveniently forces him to look around at the room. There are large bay windows to the left of the bed and the look of the windows just tells Stiles exactly where he is.

There are dark blue sheets on the bed, almost like the sheets Stiles has on his own bed, back in his father’s home, right where he’s supposed to fucking be in right now. Stiles turns his head to the right and he spots a dresser, and right behind him is a large closet with two sets of double doors. Stiles forces himself to his feet and he suddenly feels lightheaded. His skin stretches painfully over his bones again, but Stiles forces himself to stagger to the bathroom. He knows that the door is next to the double doors of the closet. He knows this, and he fucking wishes he doesn’t.

Stiles stumbles into the bathroom and he slams his hip against the sink. He curses at the sting of it, but the words die on his lips when his eyes lock on the face staring back at him in the mirror. The face staring at him is not Stiles. Stiles stares at himself – fuck – he’s staring at Derek fucking Hale in the mirror and this shit is not funny.

Stiles feels his chest tighten and his breathing is strained. He bends over the sink and black dots appear in his periphery. His fingers hurt and his jaw fucking aches. Stiles opens his eyes, fuck, he can’t even remember closing them in the first place, and he stares at his hands. Black claws are where his nails should be and Stiles’ breathing just speeds all the way up again. He steals a glance at the mirror and the eyes reflecting back, are ice blue. His eyebrows have disappeared into the abyss and deep furrows appear on his forehead, a thick carpet of hair have spread all the way down his cheeks and stopping just above his jaw, but the fangs. Sweet baby cheeses, the fucking fangs feel like they’re splitting his gums in half.

Stiles slams his eyes closed and his knees just turn to jelly and he slides to the floor. His hands are still firmly locked on the edge of the sink, but Stiles just presses his chin to his chest and he feels like crying.

Just as he’s about to pass out, there are hands on him and someone calling his name. Stiles doesn’t register anything, he just slumps into the hands clutching his shoulders.

 

:::

 

Stiles opens his eyes and there’s fingers carding through his hair. He’s pressed up against a chest, but he’s still in front of the sink. His chin is still pressed against his chest, but there’s a chin hooked over his shoulder. Stiles pulls a deep breath in, trying to fill his lungs to the brim.

“Are you okay now?” Stiles’ own voice asks him. He tenses and turns around. He’s practically in his own lap, but Stiles doesn’t care. He looks at his hands and sees that the claws are gone, receded to wherever they go whenever Derek wolfs out.

“What the fuck,” Stiles reaches his hand out and touches his own face, “I’m so confused.”

“Well, that makes two of us.” Derek says, and Stiles sees his own eyebrows furrow and a very Derek-like expression crosses his own face.

“This is very weird. So very weird.” Stiles says and for the first time he actually notices that he’s using Derek’s voice. He suddenly feels lightheaded and presses his face against his own shoulder. They sit there for a while, Stiles trying to get his breathing back under control again and Derek just sitting there and not saying a word.

Only when Stiles feels his legs cramp up, he pushes to his feet and extends a hand down to himself. Derek grasps Stiles’ fingers and stands. His legs are a little wobbly, but he doesn’t say anything. Stiles wants to ask, but doesn’t.

When they’re both standing and the only point of contact between them is their fingers, which are oddly linked and refusing to let go, Derek says, “We should call Scott.”

 

:::

 

Stiles can hear Scott grumble, but he can also hear Scott’s bike pull up. There’s traffic buzzing lightly through his head and Stiles can hear the slight whistle of the wind around the building. He’s pretty sure that all of the sounds will drive him insane before the end of the day, but he tries to ignore it as best as possible, however, he hasn’t had any Adderall and he doesn’t feel like he’s about to vibrate out of his own skin at a moment’s notice. That’s when he notices that his- Derek’s hands are shaking as he pulls two mugs from the cabinet and waits for the coffee pot to fill.

“Derek,” Stiles says softly. He knows exactly what Derek is feeling right now, because he’s felt it every single day since he was five.

“Is this what you always feel like?” Derek blurts. His hands tighten around the edge of the counter and Stiles can see his own knuckles turn white from the pressure.

“Yeah,” he replies. “The meds calm me down a little and helps me focus, but I pretty much always feel like my bones are too big and my skin is too tight and that my skin feels like buzzing away from me.” Stiles rambles nervously. He clutches his arms around himself and almost laughs.

The heavy metal door slides open and Scott, Kira and Liam stumble in. They’re bleary-eyed and grumbling. They make themselves at home on Derek’s sofa, like they almost don’t see Stiles leaning against the kitchen counter, or how Derek is slumped over the coffee machine. Not like they know that Derek is in Stiles’ body and vice versa.

Once coffee has been passed all around and Scott looks marginally more awake than when he stumbled into the loft fifteen minutes ago, Stiles starts talking.

“So, I’m not sure what happened, but Derek and I-“ he gulps and wraps his arms around himself, “Derek and I, uhm, we switched bodies?” Stiles knows he sounds uncertain and by the look in Scott’s eye, he’s either about to blow Stiles off or have him sent back to Eichenhouse. Scott, in fact, does neither. He does, however, start laughing. Liam chuckles too, but Kira just stares at Stiles and Derek. Her head is cocked to the side in confusion, but there’s a twinkle of something in her eyes.

Scott is still laughing when Kira jumps up with a gasp, “Stiles?” She asks, looking directly into Derek’s eyes. Stiles feels his shoulders curl and his head ducks down a little. He didn’t pull a shirt onto Derek’s naked torso, but right now, that is the least of his worries.

Scott stops laughing and sits up. Liam is still chuckling, but he gets a smack to the head, courtesy of Kira.

“Yeah,” Stiles says softly. Derek folds his arms over his chest, and stares resolutely at the floor. 

“How-“ Scott starts, but breaks off. His eyes flicker between Stiles and Derek and he opens his mouth a few times, but abruptly shutting up again.

“We need to do research, find out what the hell happened.” Stiles mumbles. The heartbeats in the room are drowning out the traffic outside, but it’s too much. Stiles clutches at his head, fingers pressing into his scalp like he’s trying to claw the sound out of his ears. He clenches his eyes and his fingers start to hurt again.

There’s a hand on his wrist and someone is both tugging and pushing at him until he is forced to sit on the small window sill. There are hands on each wrist now and a soothing voice trying to talk him down. Stiles can’t focus on the words, because there’s too much noise. 

“Stiles,” Derek’s voice just adds to the deafening roar in his ears. His head is buzzing and Stiles whines low in his throat. To his own ears, he sounds like a wounded animal, he sounds like a hurt and bleeding Derek, like the many times Derek managed to nearly die in the last few years.

“Stiles,” Derek begins again, but Stiles tries to ignore his own voice. There’s a scraping and near shouting, but his ears suddenly start ringing and everything just turns to white noise. “Stiles, listen to me. Just focus on my voice,” Derek’s words bleed in and out of his ears and his head pounds. 

There’s some mumbling and after a while, the words become clear and instead of sounding like a far off mumbling, the words become crisp. “-who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,” Derek says confidently, almost as if he’s reading from a page. Stiles feels fingers move between the webbed spaces of his own and nails dragging over his scalp.

“Who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated, who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansan and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,” Stiles feels Derek’s breath puff out over his forehead for a moment, and Stiles can feel Derek move closer to him until skin presses against his own.

“Who were expelled from the academies for crazy and publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull, who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the war…” Derek trails off, realising that Stiles has stopped shaking and whining. 

Slowly, Stiles manages to focus on Derek’s words and everything else bleeds away, until the only thing that’s left is Derek’s voice and his heartbeat, a slow thump-thump below the surface of Derek’s thrumming skin. Derek’s breathing calms Stiles down, mimicking Derek’s own slow-in-slow-out movements.

Stiles lets out a slow breath and scrubs his eyes. Derek’s hands fall away, and Stiles notices for the first time that Derek is crouched between his legs, closer than they’ve been in years. Stiles glances over Derek’s shoulder and sees that the loft is empty. The door is slightly ajar, but there are no heartbeats anywhere near the loft.

“Sorry.” Stiles mumbles. “I never thought that this would happen to me, you know? I know how Scott struggles with control and everything…” He trails off.

Derek shrugs and Stiles finds it so surreal to see Derek’s expressions and mannerisms reflected in his own body. “I had a lot of time to learn control as a kid, but it’s different for every wolf. Scott didn’t have a wolf to help him, so he had to manage on his own. You shouldn’t be worrying about learning how to control your wolf, but you’re hopefully not going to be stuck like this for too long.” Derek gets up as he speaks. He runs his fingers through Stiles’ hair and moves over to the sofa.

“Where is everybody?” Stiles finally asks.

“I told them to leave,” Derek shrugs again as he slumps down on the edge of the sofa. He rests his arms on his legs and drops his head down. “We can sort everything out over the phone. Scott will talk to Lydia and by extension Parrish. I’ll call your dad and tell him something-“

“Hang on, why the hell do you want to call my dad?” Stiles interrupts, but Derek gives him a look that clearly conveys the ‘Seriously?’ that he really wants to utter.

“I don’t know, Stiles, maybe because I’m in your body and I have your voice and Derek Hale has no reason to be calling the Sheriff about how his underage son will be spending an undetermined amount of time in a loft with the man he once accused of murder?” Derek spits and gets back to his feet, storming back over to the kitchen.

Derek slams a few cupboard doors and the klink of the coffee cups bumping together in Derek’s anger. His shoulders are straight and pulled back, as he carries himself with that Hale air that must have been instilled in him since he was just a baby. He’s so proud, even though he’s trapped in a seventeen year old spastic kid’s body. Not even when Derek was de-aged into his own sixteen year old self, was Stiles this fascinated with him.

“What were you reading to me?” Stiles blurts out. Fucking great. He feels his face burn and his ears suddenly feel like they were set on fire. Even in someone else’s body, Stiles still manages to be a complete moron with zero-to-no filter. Derek stops, his head still in the fridge. He turns slowly, body rigid. He glances over his shoulder at Stiles, still perched at the huge bay windows, and turns back to the fridge. He looks like he’s just staring into the fridge, as if he wants to beg it to give him the answers to the universe, but Stiles doubts that whatever minimalistic food Derek does have in his fridge, will give him the answers he so desperately searches for.

“I wasn’t reading anything.” Derek states. His voice is flat, probably just like his expression. “It’s a poem. My mom always recited it whenever I couldn’t maintain control.” Derek doesn’t turn, but he does close the fridge.

“What’s it called?” Stiles asks tentatively, after a moment’s silence.

“Howl.” Derek says and Stiles wants to say something supernaturally stupid, so freaking badly, but he clenches his jaw to shut himself up. Stiles is still curled in on himself and Derek doesn’t move away from the fridge.

“It’s beautiful.” Stiles whispers. Derek turns and walks, as calmly as he can manage in Stiles’ perpetually nervous body, out of the door, leaving Stiles alone with whatever is going on right now.

He wants to scream, to cry, to rage, to punch whoever did this stupid fucking thing to them, but he doesn’t. Instead, Stiles pulls himself to Derek’s naked feet and goes back upstairs. He climbs the slow spiral staircase all the way up to Derek’s bedroom, where he falls down on the bed, prime Stiles move, and just vegetates there until he falls asleep with Derek Hale’s scent in his nose.

 

:::

 

Stiles wakes with a start. He’s slightly confused and his eyes are still thick with sleep. He wants to force himself to fall back asleep, but there’s an annoying buzz somewhere in the room. Stiles cannot place the noise, and stumbles to his feet. He’s bleary eyed and rubs his eye like a three year old. He stumbles to the dresser, where the buzzing is the loudest, and finds Derek’s phone. The screen is lit up and ‘Scott McCall’ is written at the top. Stiles swipes his thumb over the screen and mumbles out a groggy, “Hello?”

“Stiles? This is Stiles, right?” Scott sounds nervous, almost as if he wishes to God that whatever happened is just a crazy dream.

“Yeah, dude.” Stiles mumbles and yawns. He stretches his back and arches his shoulders back until his back pops. Stiles lets out a very satisfied groan and scratches his cheek. His fingers come in contact with Derek’s stubble and the sensation of the bristles on his fingers sends a pleasant sensation down Stiles’ spine. The thought of Derek’s stubble being rubbed over his own neck, makes Stiles want to groan loudly, but he pushes the sensation down and just bites his lip.

“Wow, this is so weird.” Scott says and Stiles feels guilty for his thoughts while his best friend is talking to him. Luckily Scott can’t smell Stiles’ semi-arousal over the phone.

“Yeah, very. It feels strange. I never knew exactly how you felt when you were struggling with your control. It feels like there’s a million sensations that all want my attention. Fuck, how did you get through this?” Stiles questions.

“Anchor, remember?” Scott says in almost a whisper. Stiles is hit by a sudden overwhelming sadness. He’ll never be able to forget about Allison and how she was the reason that Scott didn’t wolf out or maul someone. An image jumps into Stiles’ mind, Econ with Coach and how he was treating Scott. Stiles remembers holding his phone and staring at Scott’s heart-rate and how it spiked. He remembers feeling worried that Scott would claw the shit out of Coach. His heartbeat slowed down and Stiles remembers how Allison had a hold of Scott’s fingers. She was Scott’s anchor and both the best and possibly the worst thing that ever happened to him.

“Hang on, so you’re saying that I have to get an anchor to make sure that I don’t lose my mind?” Stiles asks through the lump in his throat.

“I dunno, man. Did you ask Derek?”

“I would, if he was here.” Stiles says darkly. He moves back toward the bed and sits down. He wants to pull his feet up and rest his chin on his knees like a petulant child, but he won’t let Derek Hale make him feel like this is his fault.

“Dude, he left?” The incredulity in Scott’s voice is evident.

“Yeah.” Stiles doesn’t want to say anything else. He doesn’t want Scott to be any more pissed off with Derek than he already is.

“Fucking asshole!” Scott shouts and Stiles winces. His ears aren’t used to loud noises and they make him jumpy as hell. “I’m coming over.”

“Dude, no. you can’t.” Stiles feels oddly anxious. “You can’t okay? I don’t wanna freak out like earlier and then do something stupid.”

“You shouldn’t be alone right now!” Scott shouts again.

“I’m fine, Scotty. I’m sure Derek will come back. It must be just as weird for him, okay? He doesn’t know how to be human, remember? He doesn’t know how to be without his wolfy power, ignoring the Kate-power-sucking shit, okay? Maybe he just needs time to adjust,” Stiles tries to placate Scott. He can’t have him in Derek’s loft and have the weird smells in here again. It smells dusty, cold and empty enough as it is, and adding the scents of other wolves will just set Stiles off again.

Stiles doesn’t question why he feels weird when Scott is around. It’s probably something to do with the pack thing, possibly. Stiles makes a mental note to ask Derek, if- when he eventually comes back.

“Just, we need to do research. We need to know what happened so that we can fix it. Lydia still has the bestiary and I think I can get in contact with the witch that helped us last time. Derek also probably knows a lot of people who can help. You should call Deaton, too.” Stiles redirects Scott’s attention. Scott is about to start whining, but Stiles cuts him off when he hears a metal scrape coming from downstairs.

“I gotta go. Call me when you’ve found something.” Stiles ends the call on Scott’s indignant spluttering. Stiles sighs and rubs a hand down his face. He gets up and puts Derek’s phone back on the dresser. He’s still shirtless and he decides to pull the drawers open until he finds a stack of t-shirts. He pulls a faded grey t-shirt from the top of the pile and pulls it over his head. It smells faintly of Derek’s detergent and Stiles firmly shuts the impulse to smell Derek’s clothes, right the fuck down.

Stiles climbs down the stairs tentatively, stopping at the bottom of the stairs when he sees Derek in the kitchen, putting groceries away. Stiles wants to gape, but he thinks that if he does, Derek’ll be even more pissed off than before. 

“Are you hungry?” Stiles’ own voice asks him and his stomach rumbles with something between hunger and butterflies. Derek isn’t attentive, and the fact that he is concerned about Stiles’ well-being, makes Stiles want to blush from the roots of his hair, down to his little toe.

“Yeah,” He mumbles, “I can make something for us?” He asks tentatively. He moves slowly toward the kitchen. He’s nervous as hell and he really doesn’t want Derek to get mad at him again. 

Derek nods and Stiles can see the way his hands shake. His back is locked up and his shoulders are tense.

“We, uh, we should go to my house. You’re gonna need to take my meds.” Stiles finishes lamely. Derek doesn’t say anything, but Stiles can practically hear his reluctance. He smells nervous and anxious. There’s something beneath the sour smell of anxiety, but Stiles doesn’t know how to control his newly acquired senses, and Derek wouldn’t take kindly to Stiles flicking himself in the nose to help him focus.

“Does it always feel like this? I feel like I drank about fifteen cups of coffee and replaced the water with red bull.” Derek clenches his fists and mumbles ‘unbelievable’ under his breath. Stiles cannot stifle his giggle.

“Oh God, wait until the insomnia kicks in, buddy.” Stiles giggles a bit more, and breaks out in a full belly laugh, when he sees Derek’s shoulder shaking slightly. He knows Derek is laughing and really really doesn’t want to.

“This is ridiculous.” Derek turns and he lets out a huffy half breath, half laugh.

“It’s a little freaky Friday,” Stiles giggles and Derek shakes his head. He has a tick in his eyebrow that tells Stiles that he’s confused. “Seriously? Last proper movie that Lindsay Lohan made? Nothing? Figures,” Stiles huffs and Derek smiles. He’s all teeth and Stiles didn’t even know that his mouth could do that.

“I have a life, you know?” Derek grins a little wider when Stiles gapes at him and splutters. He turns and pulls a pack of chicken and a bag of vegetables out of one of the grocery bags. “Is stir-fry okay?” Derek questions. “I think I still have some rice from when Isaac-“ He breaks off and stops for a second. He’s back in motion again and Stiles thinks that he imagined the pause.

“Yeah, that’s fine. Can I help you with anything?” Stiles asks, shuffling nervously from foot-to-foot.

“Sure. You can cut the chicken.” Derek says and directs Stiles to the old wooden chopping board and the block with knives.

They work in silence, then cook in silence. After that, they eat dinner on the sofa in silence and Stiles washes the dishes in silence, while Derek goes to Stiles’ house to fetch clothes and Adderall. He promised to bring Stiles’ laptop and phone charger too, but the conversation was stilted and awkward. 

Stiles dries the dishes and searches the cupboards until he has everything packed away in their respective places. He turns on a few lights when darkness falls and the loft becomes desperately dark. He climbs the stairs and wants to face plant down on the bed and crawl into oblivion until this shit is sorted out.

He diverts into the bathroom instead. He might be in Derek’s body, but he still has a nightly ritual. Stiles catches himself in front of the mirror and stares at Derek’s defined jaw and his dark stubble. His eyes are a little more green than grey today. Stiles looks down and thumbs the hem of Derek’s t-shirt. Before he can question himself, he pulls the shirt off and dumps it on the ground.

He stares at Derek’s reflection in the mirror. There’s a light dusting of hair on his chest that trickles down his pectorals and darkens in a thick cluster underneath his naval. The sweatpants are riding low and Stiles stares at the v of Derek’s hips, up to the defined muscles of Derek’s stomach and his eyes catch on Derek’s nipples. They are small and light pink. Stiles unconsciously drags his thumb over Derek’s nipple and it hardens into a little nub almost immediately. Stiles gasps at the sensation. It’s like a trickle of want that travels from his nipple to his navel and settles at the base of his dick.

Stiles closes his eyes and lets out a heavy breath. He leans against the sink, his hands clutching at the edges and bites his lip. He tries to will his sudden arousal down, but the sensation is nearly overwhelming. Stiles can’t deny that he finds Derek attractive, and this is probably the closest that Stiles will ever get to Derek’s body.

Before he can think about the situation or talk himself out of it, he yanks on the drawstring and shimmies the sweats down Derek’s defined legs. His thighs are thick and the muscles define themselves above the knee. He peeks at Derek’s shins, but that’s not what catches his attention.

The trail of hair below his naval leads a lighter trail down to his crotch, where his dick is half-hard. Stiles runs a finger through the coarse hairs and runs his nail lightly down the side of Derek’s dick, from root to tip, where he backtracks and grips the base lightly. From there he slides his fingers down to the tip, where Stiles bites his lip nearly in half when the sensation makes him shudder.

Derek’s dick hardens and hardens and hardens until Stiles feels lightheaded. Derek’s dick is full and thick. He looks like a healthy 11 inches and Stiles feels his mouth water at the thought of getting his mouth on Derek’s dick.

Stiles pulls his hand away and stares at Derek’s face in the mirror again. His pupils are dilated and his skin looks flushed. Stiles turns and starts the shower, waiting until the steam has fogged the bathroom up. He waits until he can’t see Derek looking back at him in the mirror anymore, before he gets into the shower and groans when the hot water hits his tense shoulders. Stiles ducks his head under the spray and lets the water run in rivulets down his face and trickle into his half open mouth when his hand finds Derek’s dick again.

He squeezes the base and tugs lightly. The water makes the slide a bit better, but the tug itself is still dry. Stiles flails his hand around, until his hand connects with a few bottles and he squeezes a few drops of what looks like body wash, into his hand. Stiles slides his hand back to Derek’s dick and strokes again from root to tip and groans deep in his chest at the sensation. He runs his fingers over the head and squeezes again. He digs his nail lightly into the slit and Stiles’ mouth opens a little further with the force of his gasp.

He tightens his hand around Derek’s dick and strokes harder and harder, twisting his wrist when he gets to the tip. His breath catches and Stiles forces his eyes open so that he can commit this to memory. Derek’s chest is flushed and his legs are shaking lightly, but he stares at his hand as the tip of Derek’s dick peeks through his fist. Stiles tugs and tugs and tugs, until his toes start to curl. The tip is blood red and Stiles wishes that he was in his own body and that this was his own hand on Derek’s dick, but that image alone, makes Stiles curl Derek’s shoulders in on his chest and his toes press into the porcelain of the shower floor. The sensation hits him like a ton of bricks and Stiles groans deep in his chest when pearly ropes of come splash against the tiles, and Stiles catches his fingers in Derek’s come. He strokes himself through one of the best orgasms he has ever had and rests his warm head against the warm shower tiles.

Stiles stands there for a minute, then two, then five, until he loses count. He waits until his breathing slows down and his heart doesn’t feel like it’s about to break out of his chest.

Stiles pulls in a deep breath and splashes some water on the tiles to wash the evidence of Stiles’ shame away. He doesn’t want to think about how shitty he feels, right on the heels of how fucking amazing that just felt. He showers on autopilot, shuts the shower off and getting out. He dries himself down and wraps the towel around his hips. He leans over the sink and brushes Derek’s teeth until his shoulder cramps.

He opens the dresser and pulls a pair of boxer briefs on, followed by sweats and an old NYU t-shirt. He rubs the towel over his head and dumps it back in the bathroom.

Stiles crawls into Derek’s bed and pulls the sheets over his shoulders. He falls asleep as soon as he turns off the light. He doesn’t dream, and that in itself is a miracle. 

 

:::


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What the fuck is going on?” The Sheriff asks. He’s been quiet for the entire pack meeting, but Stiles can sympathise with his dad on this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been sitting on my laptop for ages. I'm so so sorry!
> 
> There's a brief description of violence near the end of the chapter.
> 
> This is unbeta'd. Any and all mistakes are mine. Please let me know if you spot any, glaringly or otherwise.
> 
> Kudos and concrit are most welcome.  
> Enjoy

The next morning, at the ass crack of dawn, Stiles wakes with a gasp and a shuffle of feet downstairs. He’s sweating and his legs are caught in the sheets, causing him to trip and nearly brain himself in the chest of drawers opposite the bed, in his haste to get to the door. Stiles grabs Derek’s phone from the dresser and squints at the time. He has a brief panic filled moment when he sees that it’s Tuesday and just past seven. Normally, he’d be running down the stairs, while still pulling his pants up in a desperate dash to the kitchen for breakfast.

Now though, he’s stuck in the body of a surly werewolf with a perma-frown and a case of the cantankerous. Stiles yawns, and scratches his belly on his way down the stairs. He can smell coffee brewing. He knows Derek is downstairs, lurking.

He plods down the stairs and makes his way to the kitchen, where surprisingly, Derek and Scott are awkwardly standing around. Scott looks confused, his head tilted to the side in a way that makes him look even more like a puppy than he already is. Derek is clutching a white mug and glaring at the floor. Stiles catches a glimpse of a shaky hand before Derek shoves it into his pocket. Stiles feels disappointed to admit that he’s a little saddened at the fact that Scott spots him first.

“Stiles!” His face lights up like a child’s. His grin is as infectious as ever, and Stiles feels himself grin at his best friend.

“Hey buddy.” Derek’s hoarse voice sends tingles down his spine, and Stiles has to actively force himself not to think about what he did in Derek’s shower the previous night.

“So, okay, I know Derek said we should stay away for a while, but dude, we need to talk about patrols.” Derek’s shoulders seem to hunch and he turns his face away. “I’m going out tonight, but I’m gonna need you to come with me.”

Derek’s head jerks around and wow. Stiles is not aware that his face can do that. “No.” Derek says, with an air of finality. Scott, bless him, turns to argue.

“But Derek, we’re a wolf down now, and you said that something was lurking in the woods, so we need to go check it out, and-“

Derek growls, and hello tingles. Stiles’ own voice reverberates through the kitchen, and yeah, this shit is still weird.

“I said no. He has no control over the wolf. He could turn, or his claws could appear at any moment’s notice. He could flash eyes when he gets particularly excited, so no. I am not letting you send Stiles, who at this point is basically a baby, into a forest where ghouls or jinn could be roaming.”

Stiles isn’t sure he’s ever heard Derek say so many words at once. Sure, it’s not Derek’s actual voice, and he does make sense, but Stiles sort of wants to gape at him in incredulity. 

Scott moves to argue again, but Stiles holds his hand up. “Maybe Derek’s right? Just this once. And yeah, I can taste how foul that felt coming out of my mouth, but he’s right, dude. I don’t want to become furry in the middle of the street where anyone can see me. I’m not saying no one should go, but maybe we should wait until I don’t sprout claws whenever the mood of a room shifts with agitation?” Stiles holds up his hands, and true to his word, his fingers are black tipped with Derek’s claws. He doesn’t know how to make them go away, so he awkwardly folds his hands like he’s seen Lydia do when her nails are still wet.

Scott huffs and acquiesces. It’s an awkward moment, but Stiles reaches for a mug and pours himself a cup of coffee. Scott shifts from one foot to the next, before saying good-bye and darting out the door as if his tail were on fire. Stiles snorts into his mug.

“I- uh.” Derek mumbles. “I wanted to know your schedule for your Adderall.” He says softly. It hits Stiles then, the spasms and the rapidly moving mind and the inability to focus on anything, which he’s gotten used to over the years, that Derek isn’t used to this. Derek isn’t used to being human and having his hands shake because he hasn’t eaten breakfast, or his mind flitting from one thing to the next, stretching his mind out to the point that it makes even his skin feel like taffy.

“Bedside drawer. It’s a, uh, blue pill case. It has my morning and evening dose, and my chewable vitamins.” 

Derek raises an eyebrow at him, and Stiles can see the _‘Chewable vitamins, really?’_ in the facial tick. On his own face, which, weird as hell. 

“I’m a growing boy!” Stiles calls out after Derek, as he grabs Stiles’ school bag and heads to the door.

 

:::

Stiles and Derek reach a stalemate of sorts after that. Derek goes to school and makes more meticulous notes than Stiles ever did. Stiles force-feeds Derek the Adderall. He grumbles, but doesn’t protest. Derek even does all of Stiles’ assignments, saying that Stiles cannot complete them, seeing as he doesn’t know the work and wasn’t in class, like Derek was.

Stiles, however, sits around and reads. _All. Day. Long._ Derek has forbidden Stiles from going out, because Stiles’ control over Derek’s wolf is tenuous at best, so Stiles doesn’t argue. Derek arched the famous eyebrow when Stiles just nodded demurely and went over the bay windows to bask in the sun. When Derek sighs and ducks out of the door, Stiles plants himself in front of the windows until his ass goes numb, then he drags some pillows off of the couch and retrieves the blankets off Derek’s bed and builds himself the king of all nests. He drags the bestiary closer, which Argent himself dropped off, and thumbs through the yellow pages to read anything regarding something with flames and immortality. Everything he managed to find on the internet had something to do with Buffy or random fanfiction. Some of those stories were very porny and Stiles chanced a look at the clock before sticking his hand down Derek’s sweats, before the guilt eats at him and he yanks his hand out as if he was burned.

Stiles is in the middle of a chapter about incubi when Derek storms into the loft and slams the sliding metal door behind him. He fumes, pulls the door back open again and pulls it shut with as much force as Stiles’ skinny little arms can muster. Stiles arches an eyebrow from his blanket and pillow nest.

“You never told me that lacrosse practise sucked this much. I literally ache everywhere.” Derek fumes and stalks over to Stiles. Stiles knows that gait and pulls the blankets tighter over his shoulders. “Plus, your dad has been texting me the whole day.” He nudges Stiles with a foot, kicks his shoes off and bumps and shoves Stiles until Derek has stolen his pillow and half of the thin blanket, until Stiles himself is shoved onto the sun-baked wooden floor of the loft. Stiles grumbles and pushes and shoves at Derek until Stiles is back under the blanket and spooned up behind himself.

“Have you texted back yet?” Stiles asks, worry rising in his chest slightly.

“I don’t know what to text back.” Derek grumbles and squirms underneath the blanket until he flips Stiles’ phone over his shoulder and right into Stiles’ Derek-shaped chest. Stiles grabs the phone and thumbs into his messages to read his texts. There are a few from Malia, and a shit load from his dad.

“Shit,” Stiles mumbles and starts on an elaborate lie that he’s been really busy today and there’s nothing supernatural going on at all, no dad I’m not in trouble, nope no one’s pregnant. “You could have at least sent something, dude. He’s freaking out,” Stiles pokes Derek in the shoulder and smirks when Derek mumbles something resembling violence he’ll inflict if Stiles doesn’t cut it out.

“Didn’t know what to say.” Derek mumbles. He sounds like he’s falling asleep, but he shifts and Derek groans in definite pain. “I didn’t know that you were this shitty at lacrosse and that people tackled you like you were a bag of sand.” Stiles giggles and presses his face into Derek’s neck.

Derek pushes him away half-heartedly, but doesn’t complain when Stiles feels a grumble rising in his chest. He feels content, all of a sudden and discards the bestiary. He shoves his head next to Derek’s on the pillow and pushes right up against his own body, before slinging an arm around Derek’s waist and pulling him close. They doze like that for a while and Stiles’ rumbling increases. He feels like a giant cat lazing in the sun.

The sliding door, however, is not part of the lazy cat Stiles has going on. It slams open and the Sheriff comes bustling into the loft and starts yelling almost immediately. Derek and Stiles pop up from their nest in the sun. The Sheriff stops right in his tracks, hand on his gun and he’s staring at them. His eyes might bug out at any second, but they just stare at each other.

“This is what you’ve been hiding?” The Sheriff asks and Stiles wants to duck his head, but he notices that his dad is staring at Derek. And Derek is wearing a Stiles-suit. He wants to smack himself, but he figures that if he does that, the jig will be up. “You’re dating Derek Hale?” The Sheriff sounds slightly hurt. Stiles doesn’t think, he just talks.

“Dad, it’s not what you’re thinking.” He jumps up from underneath the blankets. His dad stares at him. His eyes are definitely bulging right now. “Shit.” He mumbles.

“Stiles?” The Sheriff asks, eyes flitting between Derek and Stiles, before settling on Stiles, in Derek’s body.

“Surprise?” Stiles grins and flings his arms out in a ta-da of sorts, but it falls completely flat.

“What the hell?” The Sheriff mumbles, before nearly yelling, “Stiles, what the hell? What did you do?”

“Why do you always think I did something?” Stiles questions. He’s totally miffed, because this shit is totally not his fault okay. Both Derek and his dad give him a look that says you-always-do-shit-like-this-dumbass, but Stiles ignores them both and storms into the kitchen to turn the coffee maker on. “I don’t know what happened okay? We both just woke up like this, okay? Don’t give me that look dad, because this time, I’m totally innocent.” Stiles huffs and pulls three mugs from the shelf and clangs them down onto the cupboard.

Derek emerges from the blanket nest and shuffles closer to the Sheriff, but by the pull of his shoulders, Stiles knows that he would prefer to rather remain invisible.

“Hang on, wait.” The Sheriff rubs his forehead and spins in a slow circle. “So, you’re Derek,” He points at Stiles’ body, “and you’re Stiles.” He points at Derek’s face. “Oh my God. This isn’t another Kanima is it?” 

“Not everything is a Kanima, dad. There will not be another Kanima, okay?” Stiles huffs and leans against the fridge, folding Derek’s big arms over his chest. The Sheriff chuckles and rubs his forehead again.

“Right, there you are.” He says and eyes the both of them again. “So, any idea what caused this?” He asks.

“No idea, but we’re pretty sure that it was a witch, or something.” Derek finally speaks up and steps a little closer to the Sheriff.

“Another Blake stunt?” The Sheriff asks worriedly.

“No, we don’t think so, at least.” Derek mumbles and steps closer again. “We think that it might be someone playing a practical joke, or something.” Stiles looks on confusedly.

“We do?” He asks in confusion.

“Yeah,” Derek ducks his head, “Lydia told me at school today.” He shrugs and ducks his head.

“Well,” The Sheriff says, “At least he’s going to school.”

“What?” Stiles splutters, “Seriously dad?”

“You don’t even go to school regularly, Stiles.” The Sheriff says blandly, and yeah, his dad might have him there, but hello, rude much? His dad’s eyes turn to Derek, who Stiles can tell wants to shrink even smaller, if it were possible.

“Who did _you_ piss off?” The Sheriff has his hands on his hips. Stiles likes to think of it as his dad pose.

“Dad!” Stiles shouts. He can feel the indignation at the accusation spreading through him, and his chest heats up a little. They aren’t friends, yeah, but accusing Derek of screwing up every single time has to grow old some time or another. 

“No one, sir.” Derek replies, ignoring Stiles completely. “I saw something in the Preserve though, when I was patrolling a few weeks ago. It was close to the Nemeton, so witch activity might be rife after the stunt Jennifer pulled. I’m not sure though, but we’re going to check it out tonight.”

Stiles can feel his eyes but out slightly. “We are?” He asks, rightly confused.

“Yes, we are.” Derek bites out, and he stares at Stiles. There’s a fire in his eyes that Stiles hasn’t seen in a very long time, not since he was Alpha. “We’re going now, actually.”

The Sheriff looks between them. Stiles knows he suspects something, but his dad has always been the most tactful person he knows, and sagely decides not to say anything. He ignores the pointed look his dad and Derek give him, though.

“Okay then,” his father intones. “I’ll drive.”

“What?” Derek and Stiles say in unison. Stiles might have to check, but he’s pretty sure his father just grew an extra head or something.

“Dad, no, you’re not-“ He starts, but his dad cuts him off.

“I can and I will. No one messes with my kid and gets away with it.” He says determinedly and clasps them both on the shoulder. “Now go get dressed so we can get moving.”

Stiles glances at Derek, silently begging him to say something, but Derek’s still staring at the side of the Sheriff’s head. Maybe _he’s_ found that second head Stiles couldn’t locate on the other side.

“Today, Stiles.” His father sighs, and Stiles heads up the stairs as quickly as he can. He pulls on a pair of jeans and a maroon Henley, splashes cold water on his face and rakes his hands through his hair. 

“Man up.” He whispers to himself as he stares at Derek’s reflection in the mirror above the sink. He wants to look as confident as Derek always does, but the thought fails him immediately and he stares at his fingers. They aren’t claws, but there’s a tingling feeling running up and down his spine, like anticipation. It feels like he needs to go out and _do_ something. He shakes his head, and heads back into the bedroom to root around Derek’s drawers for socks and then hunts for Derek’s boots.

There’s a soft murmuring coming from downstairs, but Stiles doesn’t know how to focus on it, so that he can pull the words out and make them clearer, to eavesdrop on his father and Derek. He should feel bad about wanting to know what they’re talking about, but he doesn’t. 

He finally stumbles his way down the stairs, boots clunking down the stairs and probably creating more noise than Derek ever has in his life. Derek’s leaning against the back of the couch, arms crossed, and his dad’s hand is on his shoulder. His dad has that sympathetic look to him, the same he sometimes has around Stiles when his brain moves faster than his mouth, and he hasn’t slept in three days. His dad knows how bad it gets sometimes, and seeing it reflected on Derek makes him feel like a giant asshole, even though he knows he has no reason to feel this way at all.

They both look up at him, and the noise he’s making. They quietly file out, and Derek locks the door behind them, shoving the keys into his own pocket, instead of giving them to Stiles.

The drive to the Preserve is quiet, but not uncomfortable. Stiles thought it would be awkward, but he and Derek are both sitting in the back of his dad’s patrol car, so it’s more embarrassing than uncomfortable. 

The three of them make their way through the preserve, having gotten out of the patrol car a while back, and are legging it through the woods to the creepy ass tree that seems to attract anything and everything from creepy, to scary to _how are you even real_. 

Stiles’ stomach lurches once the tree comes into focus. He can feel the mood shift and the air around the Nemeton becomes heavy, and Stiles feels like he’s breathing in fog. He spots the candles around the base of the stump, and doesn’t think about how stupid that is, because _that shit could start a fire_. There’s decaying fruit placed in a circle around the edge of the stump, and a puddle of blood in the middle. 

“Shit.” Derek mumbles next to him. The three of them spread out around the stump, and Stiles spots his dad rubbing his forehead.

“Whose blood is that?” His dad asks, and Stiles looks to Derek, but finds that Derek is already looking at him.

“I don’t think Stiles can tell the difference between human and animal blood yet, but we can ask Scott.” He pulls a handkerchief and a zip lock bag from his back pocket. Derek dabs the handkerchief into the blood, and drops it into the bag, but his expression freezes.

“It’s warm.” He whispers. Stiles frowns as Derek flattens his palm against the stump, between the puddle of blood and the circle of fruit. “The stump. It’s warm.” He glances up at Stiles, then the Sheriff. “I-“ Derek starts, but the rustle behind them makes all three of them stop and turn.

They can’t see anything through the thick copse of trees, but Stiles can make out the smell of rotting flesh and decay. He frowns and takes a step forward. The rustling becomes louder as it comes closer.

There’s a loud squeal and something rams into Stiles from behind, knocking him off his feet. He twists mid-fall to see _something_ falling on top of him. Stiles is pretty sure this thing used to be a person, but the light grey pallor of its skin, the fiendishly large eyes, and a large open mouth with rows of sharp looking teeth that’s dripping spit, as the body seems to have sallow skin sloping off of its bones, reaches for Stiles’ neck with sharp looking claws.

Stiles pulls his legs up mid-fall, and kicks as hard as he can. His booted feet plant in the middle of the thing’s chest and it’s vaulted a few meters away from him. Stiles is sure he hears a few ribs cracking, but ignores it and the shouting around him. He rolls to his feet, keeping low to the ground, his feet braced. He’s glad to see that Derek’s wolf knows what to do when the shit hits the fan, and he brings his fully claw-tipped hands up.

“Stiles.” He hears his father say, and glances toward him, keeping one eye on the _thing_ slowly getting to its feet. Derek and his dad have their backs to each other; his dad’s weapon is drawn and pointing toward one of the monsters. Derek has a thick branch of some sort clutched in both hands.

The thing in front of Stiles screeches and lunges toward him. Stiles is vaguely aware of gunshots as he ducks under its claws, slashing with both of his own claws over the thing’s side and back. It screeches again, turning around far quicker than the decaying body suggests it should be able to do. It lunges for Stiles again, teeth bared, but it stops abruptly. It stumbles back, heading for the trees. The distinct lack of fighting makes him look over at his dad and Derek. The things threatening them had also retreated into the cover of the trees. There’s a long cackle that follows, that sounds suspiciously like hyenas, but there are no wild hyenas in California. He’s about 99% sure, but Beacon Hills always fucks with the status quo of normality, so he wouldn’t be surprised if hyenas suddenly migrated from the plains of the Savannah, to the bushy undergrowth of Beacon Hills.

“Okay” His father says, sounding out of breath, “what the hell just happened?”

“How about we get out of here before we start speculating, huh?” Stiles suggests. He looks over at Derek as he dumps the branch on the ground. He can’t read Derek’s expression, but then again, he doesn’t really need to. Derek looks a little scared, and Stiles doesn’t blame him. Those things are freakishly strong and Derek doesn’t even have his wolfy powers to rely on to scrape his ass through a tough situation.

They leave the area quickly, after Stiles takes a bunch of pictures of the Nemeton and the party goodies someone left behind. The drive back to Derek’s loft is an explosion of conversation, mostly consisting of his dad muttering, “What the hell,” to himself.

He texts Scott a simple _Pack meeting at the loft. ASAP._ and knows that Scott will convey the information to all of the related parties.

He isn’t expecting them all to be at the loft when they eventually get there though. Scott, Liam, Kira, Malia, Lydia, Parrish, and even Chris Argent are waiting in the loft for them. With everyone seated, his dad hovering between needing a drink of needing an entire bottle, Derek starts talking. He informs them about how they went out to the Nemeton, everything they found, about how the tree was warm to the touch and the atmosphere was so thick that it felt like swimming through molasses, and huh. Stiles didn’t even think that Derek could feel the atmosphere like he did, which is interesting and horrifying. He knows werewolves are sensitive to emotions and the air around them, but he also knows that if a human can feel the thickness of _bad shit is happening here_ , then he knows something bad is cooking.

But when Derek starts talking about the _things_ that attacked them in the Preserve though, all hell breaks loose. Scott starts shouting at Derek, Kira tries to intervene, Chris starts arguing with Scott, which has Liam arguing with Chris, which results in Malia telling Liam to shut up. It’s a cacophony of shouting and anger filling the room. Stiles can feel his claws extending and he wants to shout, because they know how the shifting atmosphere still messes with his ability to control the wolf, but it’s Lydia’s voice that cuts through the shouting and his laboured breathing is all that fills the silence that follows.

“If you want to behave like children, go home.” She says. The coldness in her voice books no room for argument. “Derek, do you have any ideas about what those things are?” She asks calmly. Scott opens his mouth, and the thunderous expression on his face means that he’s about to say something bad. Something very bad.

“McCall, I told you to stop. If you have a problem with the fact that Stiles and Derek went to the Preserve with the Sheriff, then that’s _your_ problem. You should have been out there two days ago when all of this started, but you haven’t. If you want to blame someone, blame yourself. Now sit down and be quiet.” Lydia flicks her strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder, and Stiles suddenly remembers why he was so in live with her for so long. Scott sits down with a huff, though, so Stiles supposes that counts as a win.

He curls his fingers away from his palms, the only evidence of claws being the droplets of blood still clinging to his skin. He’s glad that the wolves in the room ignore the smell of blood, even though Malia is staring at him, her head cocked to the side.

“I’m not exactly sure what they are. They looked like decaying zombies. They loped off before they inflicted any real damage on us, but they howled. Like hyenas.”

“Ghouls.” Chris says, and Lydia is already digging her copy of the bestiary out of her oversized bag. “They’re greyish, big heads, bug eyes, a lot of teeth and pointy clawed hands?” He asks. Derek and Stiles both nod.

“They smelled like death. Like they’ve been dead for a while.” Stiles says. Chris inclines his head.

“Or they were waiting for us long enough for the stench to soak into the surrounding area.” Derek says. Stiles looks at him, following Derek’s train of thought. Whoever did this to them, knew they would be checking on the Nemeton, and had an ambush in place. Fuck.

“Ghouls dwell in burial grounds and other uninhabited places. It is a fiendish type of jinn believed to be sired by Iblis. It is also desert-dwelling, shape shifting, and can assume the guise of an animal, especially a hyena.” Lydia reads from the bestiary cracked open in her lap. She looks up at Stiles. “Iblis is a demon, and falls under the Arabic term for devil, Shaytan. It refers to all evil forces under the leadership of the arch-devil.” She closes the bestiary and looks around the room.

“What the fuck is going on?” The Sheriff asks. He’s been quiet for the entire pack meeting, but Stiles can sympathise with his dad on this one.

What the fuck is going on indeed.

:::

**Author's Note:**

> So this is something that has pretty much bullied me into writing it. Please let me know what you think?
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely liquidfire (sadly I haven't figured out how to do the link thingy, but I'm working on it!)
> 
> Comments and kudos = love ♡
> 
> Chapter 2 will be posted next Monday


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